


Jim's Window Of Desire

by Jimlockian



Series: Prompts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, NSFW, Voyeurism, johniarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:18:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First promptfic..  John is alone in the flat when some provocative texts come in - for him of all people. Eerily,  however, his admirer seems to be watching him, and they are rather demanding..<br/>Warning: Graphic descriptions of intercourse, aka NSFW content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jim's Window Of Desire

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to Doyle, Moffat, & Gatiss, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!
> 
> And thank you to the promptor, who knows who they are - you tricky devil ;D

Part of London's allure is its busy, bustling quality. Cities are a way to get lost in a crowd, lost among the fast paced lifestyle. People are always coming and going in London. The same is true of relocating – properties are always going up for sale or rent – with the populous' multitude it is hardly surprising that said populous is ever changing.   
  
Neither is it surprising that when a property not far from 221 Baker Street comes on the market it is purchased by Jim Moriarty, under one of many false, untraceable names. The tiny apartment is a pad of squalor compared to any of his many real long term homes, but like any piece of real estate this one is all about location, location, location...

* * *

  
One week later.  
  
John had arrived back at their flat, in the midst of a particularly brutal case. Brutal not in the crime, but the efforts put out by the crime-stopping duo. Sherlock is still out somewhere in London, having strode away from John while muttering something about checking in all the dumpsters near the Royal Opera House.

John takes advantage of the manic detective's absence by running a long bath and taking a brief soak. After all their non-stop clue scouring he feels it is well deserved. The next item on his list is a sandwich when he notices his phone buzz. John takes a detour on the way to the kitchen and clicks open a new text message on his phone.  
  
He expects something from Sherlock – some ranting about finding what he was looking for and requiring John's immediate attention. Instead what he reads from an anonymous, blocked number, could not possibly be from Sherlock:

**I'd love to see you in nothing at all.**

For a moment John feels a slight rush as his body instinctively lights up at those words. It has been so long since his last girlfriend – having Sherlock constantly interrupting dates for cases is murder on John's social life. Still, John knows better – probably a text meant from a guy to his girl, and one number had been wrongly dialed. He sends back a brief text just so the owner knows their message has gone awry.  
  
 **Wrong number, mate.  
  
** So when that musical 8-bit noise resounds a second time John is genuinely perplexed. Who would reply to a stranger after making that kind of mistake? John picks the phone up again. **  
**  
 **No, John. It's you. Why don't you lose the jumper?**  
  
Overcome with surprise he finds himself staring at the phone's screen until the light dims, LED background switching off to conserve battery life. The first question is – who? Past girlfriends were never especially erotic, and none of them had ever been interested in sexting. This does not seem like their handiwork anyway, not when the relationships were all so far removed. Still, the muddled minded doctor can think of no one else.  
  
At first the most practical idea seems sound – ignore it until you know more. No use making a fool of yourself. With anonymity there is no telling who it is – and John does not want to end up the butt of some joke in Scotland Yard or among a vindictive ex, as unlikely as both seem to him. John wracks his brain for a possible suspect, suddenly wishing Sherlock was there. Before he can find a solution or reply the phone rings again.  
  
 **I do like you in blue stripes but I'd rather see you in nothing.**  
                            **Do it John. For me.**  
  
Suddenly that pinkish hue dissipates into nothingness, John turning a touch pallid from reading the last note. Since his tub he has changed into a blue striped jumper. John has only just got that out of the laundry, and he has no end of clothes.. The odds of it being a coincidence are zip to nil.

John walks to the window and peers out, finding nothing amiss. Part of him wonders if Mycroft, with all his government reach, is using technology to record their apartment. He cringes, unable to believe the elder Holmes would bother playing such an elaborate joke. So John texts back quite swiftly:

 **If this is some kind of love note it's a bit creepy  
  
** John waits for all of fifteen seconds before a reply comes in:  
  
 **Is it so hard to believe you're not as ordinary as you think?  
That nobody hungers for you?**  
 **Dear me, John.**

John swallows the sudden tightening feeling, sending it to work on his intestines while he considers the message. Certainly his self esteem is not the highest, nowhere near Sherlock's arrogant heights, but he considers himself to be realistic not pessimistic. He is aware of the roundness to his stomach while most women want tight, cut abs, and his hair and eye color are in his opinion the least interesting of humanity's choices. There is no handsome allure to him, John knows.

Yet here is some stranger telling him otherwise. Some stranger watching him. A small part of John is pleased with the gratifying compliment. Even if he still finds the anonymity a bit off-putting, the fact that eyes are on him got a little less frightening. John lifts his arms above his head, tugging the jumper up from the bottom, all the while telling himself that the flat is too hot.

**Good boy. Shirt next, buttons nice and slow.  
Facing the window if you please.**

John steps up to the window and takes a longer look across the pavement below. Then his eyes light on the flats across the street, but nothing seems probable and yet he can still feel it. Eyes, watching him. The hairs on the back of John's neck stand up. His phone buzzes within his hand and John looks down at it.  
  
 **Must I beg, Doctor Watson?**

When John does not move quick enough nor answer, another text pops up.  
  
 **I want our chance. Until then, give me a little something, Doctor.**  
 **I'll let you guess who your admirer is in three tries.**  
  
The prospect of some information does trigger a fresh touch of excitement – if it is real he would like to know who had taken an interest in him. If not, then let him look like a pillock and be done with it. Half resigned and half aroused by the strangely erotic albeit queer circumstance, John slowly lifts his thick digits to begin on the buttons.

It does not surprise him that, with the phone set down and his hands working down the buttons on his shirt, John's phone remains quiet. With an eerie punctuality John's phone tinkles when the final button is open, baring John's chest in a way that made him feel anxious more than sexy.

**First guess?**

John gives it a moment's thought and takes a general stab in the dark to cover more ground, and not to insult any particular girl:

 **An ex?  
  
** The phone buzzes with a near alarming speediness, as if the reply had already been waiting to be sent:  
  
 **If I gave you up I wouldn't be coming back.**

Despite being alone in the flat John felt like anything but. The piercing pair of eyes sending him texts is all around him. He is so self conscious, almost feeling a flashback to his youth. Yet knowing someone wants him – enough to go to stalker lengths – it is more than a touch flattering. If not for the creepy 'I-am-watching-you' angle John would have been quite chuffed.  
  
Slowly, with his eyes looking upon the opposing apartment windows once again, John takes a firm grip on his unbuttoned shirt and pulls it backwards. For the first time in a long while John feels attractive as sleeves billow downward and the garment slides fully off his body. It pools in a humble heap upon the floor. Taking his steady eyes off the window, John texts back with a slow, measured breath:  
 **Molly?  
  
** The reply comes quickly though not as fast as the earlier one. Perhaps she was expecting a different name, and for a moment John hopes he is not insulting this strange secret admirer.  
  
 **What a funny world you live in.**  
 **Let's get those trousers off.**  
  
Clearly a wrong guess, not surprising to John. He flushes brighter, cherubim cheeks taking on the rosy hue. Suddenly his heart feels prominent in his chest. Without much thinking further John pops the button on his trouser and scans the apartments ahead of him.  
  
John leaves it there, just a tiny hinting of the trail of hair leading down below the waistband of his briefs. He texts back with a sickening hope against what his fingers tap out:

**Not someone at the Yard???**

Feeling a mix of faint arousal and intense curiosity John waits. For a moment his heart starts to drop out of his chest, but the phone buzzes and he hits the read text key;  
  
 **I thought you knew better.  
Our games will have to be more direct.**

Sudden frustration hits him like a breath of smoke blown in his face. He is about to step away from the window and send back a demanding response when his eyes lift to take in Baker Street. A shifting of curtains catch his eye and John looks to see them part with a shocking sight in the window - a shirtless Jim Moriarty, his trousers unbuttoned and sliding precariously along his hips. The mimicry is unmistakable, but Jim lifts a hand and presses his palm to the window in a blatant display of desire to reach John. The villain's lips are not screaming nor threatening but slightly pouting at him.

John flushes bright, eyes wide with fear – shocked, afraid, ashamed, and a touch more aroused. 

* * *

  
John rushes down the stairs. He nearly trips heading down in his combined eagerness and urge to send another text of his own.  
  
 **STAY THERE!**

It's not until he has zipped his trousers (no time for a shirt, I'm afraid) gone through the street below and  bounding, as well as he could, up the stairs to the apartment that Jim's creepily erotic visage seemed to come from, that John checks his phone which beeped in the street.  
  
 **Promises?**  
  
John's expectation upon arrival is that Moriarty will be long gone. Quite the contrary, he is precisely as John had seen at the window, with his hand now moving to play along the top of his belt. For the short menacing figure that Moriarty always appears, strangely sinister in suits, now, with only trousers slipping on his hips all John could look at is the man's chest, a strangely beautiful symphony of flat planes and straight lines. John tries not to stare quite so much as he levels a gun on the villain.  
  
“What are you playing at?!” John half-shouts at him in a sudden flurry of emotion. The last time he felt anything near this magnitude the cabbie had been ready to poison Sherlock, and John had shot him dead.

“Oh, John,” Jim has a strangely off-putting smile that is unfamiliar and to John he can only read a mix of bemusement and predatorial urging, “We both know where this was headed.” Jim lets his dark gaze roam down the much more appealing close up before him.

John wants to hit himself for feeling aroused. Instead he jerks his hand forward to display the phone. “I will call,” He begins in as measured a voice as he can, but that emotional huff at the end remains. “Lestrade, Sherlock, and half of the Yard to arrest you. Why would you come here?” Half of him wondered if the man was truly so insane, and the other half feared just how deep his criminal roots ran.  
  
“I'm just..” Jim murmurs with a heavy undertone of sensual as he runs his hand up the sleek telescope beside him – his tool of choice given the task at hand. “Stargazing. Perfectly legal, and you're just sexting..” With a wink after that saucy comment, Moriarty begins to walk forward, giving John a wide six foot berth. “Perfectly boring. Words, just words..” Jim shakes his head slightly, teeth showing as his expression shifts to a happier one. His arms spread outward toward John, “But you're here.”

The man is insane, he must be, John feels sure of that at least in that moment. This sounds like the raving of a madman, and it is not like Moriarty has proven himself as anything less so far. Then John sees something that stops his mind in its tracks.  
  
Jim's hand descends lower, fingering his shaft through the black boxers beneath – John can see his boxers, and just enough of his wrist to know that. It seems to shift some of his blood flow, with no small amount of shame, but the gun is held steady.  
  
“Cuffs and the gun are fine with me if they help you, Doctor.” Jim murmurs wantonly while his eyelids flutter. The villain arches his back slightly to get the best light possible on his slight frame, especially that bulge in his trousers. He is overplaying this round, true enough, but it is working exactly as he wants.

John is stock still, stunned by a plethora of emotions all vying for his singular-feeling attention. His lips have gone slack, eyes dragging at the corners as he tries to fathom this ridiculously infuriating porn scene playing out in front of him. Moriarty has been sexting him and now, right in front of John, he is touching himself? John thinks about that for a moment to be sure he has understood the situation properly. Instead of being stuck in a stupor he decides that the only man capable of taking on Moriarty is Sherlock - John tries to think like Sherlock. Even knowing he will not be in the same state, let alone the same ballpark, it gives him some focus and confidence.

"... There's a camera running somewhere." John mutters, taking in a breath and trying to steel nerves that cannot stop wobbling. There is a peculiar throb from a vein in his temple, as something John was priorly unaware of suddenly feels like an inescapable pounding against his inner gray matter.

"My eyes only." Jim's eyes widen slightly, suggestive and teasing all at once. The man should sound maniacal, or psychotic, but his Dublin accent just sounds a bit too erotic for John to handle right now. A man who has seen the horror of battle from the front, as much a fighter as a healer, has never felt more raw then now; bare chested and shamefully aroused by Jim Moriarty, the man who forced him into an explosive vest at gunpoint.

"Take a look around.. I know I have." Jim smirks low, bottom teeth appearing like a predator smelling blood on the water.  
  
John does and immediately notes the baseness of the apartment - a single room with a bathroom. Barely furnished. Only the telescope and a chair. John slides his phone into his pocket without dialing for help and moves around Jim, maintaining the distance between them via his outstretched gun. The chair is simple, the telescope seems to have nothing unnecessary - John keeps his eye out for some type of lens or audio-bug, but there just are no hiding places within the empty room.

"What could possibly be in this for you?" John asks, still gob smacked, and trying to ignore the way his eyes wander down to Jim's hand palming himself.

"Johnny boy, you really don't think anyone could find you adorable." Jim states, brazenly putting it forth as fact. “That cute face, a smooth body – and don't look that way.” John's eyes had doubted, Jim saw it so much more clearly than anyone else could have. “You may not have the physique of the social ideal, but what do those insignificant plebeians know? They're so blind, John.”

With a sly yet slowly softening smile Jim pauses his stroking to pick up the handcuffs resting on the wooden chair. One slides over one wrist before he turns around with his back facing John and fumbles for a moment to attach the other cuff. Once his arms are secured behind his back he slides down to his knees and looks up at John with a slight nod.

John steps forward, only a yard between them now. His gun lowers slightly, but the man is kneeling so it is entirely appropriate to get a chest level shot. “You're completely insane.”

“You're quite stiff in the trousers.” Retorts Jim playfully, brows quivering at the waltzing banter between them, even if he had delivered the majority of it.  
  
“I'm..” John sighs and shakes his head at the audacity of it all, “I'm NOT the one groping myself in front of a man I tried to kill!” He feels like he is trying and failing to communicate with a small child, or Sherlock Holmes when he does not want to listen (which is quite often, John has noted).

Jim hums for a moment before replying in that subtle sarcastic way. “Would you feel better if I said I was sorry?” There is a pause where John simply marvels at the criminal's cool indifference to John's words to barrel forward with flirting. “I won't, but I was curious.” Even flirting, Jim is still every bit the man Moriarty is. The two are different characters – Jim the erotic figure, and Moriarty the nefarious consulting criminal leading a web of lies and tragedy.  
  
“What I will do,” Jim continues with a drop of his voice into a provocative murmur, “Is wait until you've dropped your clothes to your ankles.” When John's cautious, untrustworthy stare persists Jim carries on. “When was the last girlfriend you had, how many months now?” Jim drawls out carelessly. From his surveillance Jim knows exactly how many.

“I suppose..” He digs into a more lewd than his usual vocabulary, but the doctor does need a bit of a push so he acquiesces in the name of getting compliance, “You haven't cum from anyone but yourself in quite some time.” Jim looks up at him with sinfully blatant daring. “Come now, my texting darling,” That low voice is coy, “I'm a bit tied up at the moment but my mouth is free.” When John's Adam's apple visibly moves from the heft of his swallow Jim lets his voice sink down that extra soft, silken notch, “You've got a gun..”  
  
John is indeed the one in control of the situation – he feels so anyway, yet there is still a part of him that knows the way Jim Moriarty turns things around. At any moment the madman could flip the tables on him. But without thinking too much on the consequences, John steps forward to close the gap between them. He takes a slow breath - this is happening.

John is increasingly thankful for Jim's silence as he fumbles with the zipper on his bland pants, hard enough to do one handed (still taking comfort in the gun in his hand) without a mixed bag of nerves. It is a touch disconcerting to consider what he is doing but the man knows it would be so much worse if he walks away now. He hesitates at removing his white underwear.

Jim decides to give the kindhearted doctor a little encouragement and asks for his finger. No longer holding his gun so steadily, John drops his hand so the barrel faces the ground while the other hand lifts obediently. Jim takes the offered digit against his lecherous tongue in a preview that sends a tremor through John's arm. Removing his briefs seems to get a little easier with the promise made by that tongue.

Jim lets out a loud noise of approval at the sight before him. It both embarrasses and flatters John, who has never considered the brown curls and the slightly right-leaning shaft to be anything more than average. None of his past girlfriends have ever looked at it with hungry eyes like Jim is doing now. It should unnerve him that his enemy is leaning forward to lick the head of his prick but all John does is hold his breath.

Said breath slides out of his mouth as soon as Jim starts to work his tongue in playful little licks. The man is as much a physical tease as he is verbal. He kisses to one side of John with such ease that it leaves no doubt to the breadth of Jim's experience. There is no hesitance at all, and he seems to delight in the crude way his mouth brushes sensitive heat while his cheek hits John's pubic hair. Even without taking him into his mouth John is growing harder.

Jim is humming in his throat, pleased with the way things have worked out. The dark crown tilts to one side and he pushes his head further, forcing John to spread his legs. Jim grazes his teeth across the coarse underside of John's sac. He has to lean his head back to do so, and catches John's flushed face floored in arousal. Jim looks up through long lashes before letting his tongue flatten and run bollocks to tip. His back scrunches uncomfortably but it is worth it to unleash John's bitten back moan.

John's never had someone be so unabashedly sensual. In the past girlfriends have rarely agreed to blowjobs, and most that did only faked their interest. The lascivious act seems to be exactly what Moriarty wanted, and it strikes John to wonder if he spent the morning thinking about doing this to John. His thoughts go no further as Jim's lips surround his now gleaming prick, sucking up the drop of precum as well as John's last bit of willpower.

Without the use of his hands all Jim has is his mouth. This means it is a bit more effortful for him to take in John's shaft, his back muscles working hard to propel him forward and harder still to draw him back. Jim's trapped erection is a throbbing reminder of the singular flow of this act, but he finds unexpected contentment from the doctor's free hand sliding down and touching him. He leans back and whispers to John to grip harder and is pleased when his command is followed.  
  
Working him with more enthusiasm and skill than any woman ever has sends John to a proud full staff. Moriarty's mouth is wide open, the lack of a gag reflex driving John mad. No other blow job has come close to the intimacy level of this one. Jim's upper teeth sometimes hit the shaft and send John to shiver or wince from the sensation, and when Jim notices he sucks the head a little longer to make it up to John.

Jim's pace is slow and sensual, letting each sliding motion be felt. His throat welcomes John's length, undulating the muscles to unseat the doctor's inner passion. Past blowjobs now seem like absolute shams compared to this epitome of lust.

Moriarty leans back when he is certain the pulsating member is too close to climax. He takes pride in John's strangled sound of displeasure at the rush of room temperature air that seems cool after that hot mouth. The resultant heavy hanging crimson shaft glistening with Jim's saliva between them makes it difficult for John to look at Jim, or for Jim to look away from it to stare at John's face, but Moriarty manages. “Let's move this to the shower.” He is curious and hopeful all at once while still resting on his knees. To seal the deal he leans forward and runs his tongue along the tip, making sure to hit John's slit with a coy look on his face. The devil himself could not have been half as tempting.

John is finding out that arguing with Moriarty is in fact impossible in certain instances – like when the villain has just suckled your cock to the back of his throat and is still kneeling in front of you with spit-covered lips. For once arguing with the villain is the last thing on his mind. Yet, even still, he takes a controlled breath and tries to speak, “I.. I don't think..”

Jim surrounds his shaft with sinful moist heat and John is sent moaning instead of any rational chatter. When his enemy leans back, smirking slightly, John tries again. "You're not going to.." Flushed yet nervous the words cannot find their ending. He knows how deep this has already gone, but this is his line in the sand; John cannot go that far all of a sudden, and there is already enough shame to last him for a month. Walking home with any limp other than a psychosomatic one is not an option.

"No, don't be obvious. I'm going to fuck you anyway, someday." The sardonic smirk is reminiscent of Moriarty-the-madman, but his glinting eyes are softer.

Still, the blatancy, and eerie similarity of this declaration to Jim's threat to Sherlock at the pool, causes John to unsettle. It reminds the militant man of just how much fear he had felt being put in the middle of their childish brawl. Two grown men could never seem more selfish. So Jim is Moriarty again, and instead of losing his arousal John lost his genuine care for his partner. Normally John is affectionate, respectful to those who would sleep with him, but now he could care less what happens to Jim Moriarty in the end.

John's free hand grips harshly against Jim's chin, the glare within his eyes making the meaning obvious. With a demur look in his eyes the handcuffed man spreads his lips, only to wrench his hands free. The trick handcuffs clatter to the ground and Jim's fingers press harshly against John's bare buttocks, holding him in place while Jim begins such a manic driving of John's heavy prick down his throat that the doctor barely cares to think about the hands on him. Jim applies pressure to keep John against him on the downward thrusts, and to get an idea of that supple flesh.

The mix of surprise, blood drained all to his engorged shaft, and Jim's skillfully mad face fucking (John has no other words for it) leave the doctor reaching his peak quickly. He slams his hips forward without hesitation as Jim does the same with his jaw. When the brown haired man comes it's against the back of Jim's throat, the villain's nose pressed against his yielding flesh as John drives in all the way.

John is panting as Moriarty pulls his lips off, coolly ignoring his erection to stand up and walk stiffly to pick his shirt up off the floor. Still reeling from the orgasm, and the one he performed the act with, John does not move again until Jim walks out of the apartment, still smacking his lips.  
  
John slowly pulls up his trousers, feeling his phone in the side pocket. He never noticed it vibrating before, but there is a slew of messages. Sherlock has been texting him in a panic, and even called him, but they did not hear it. John blanches as he fixes his pants. Apparently John left the door open, and Sherlock is concerned... But now, walking back to 221b, John's not quite sure how to explain it – even to himself.


End file.
